let's buy waffles on a monday
by atlasky
Summary: "I met the Queen of England," she says, out of the blue. The worst thing about Natasha Romanoff is that you wouldn't be able to tell whether she's lying or not if she doesn't let you. That, and he is pretty sure the cat hates him and worships the ground she walks on.


**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Author's note:** Can be read as a continuation for my fic _'like waking up to a sunday morning'_ or as a stand-alone. Enjoy! Tell me what you think?

.

 **let's buy waffles on a monday  
**

.

They are taking things slow.

He whispers it into the crook of her neck and she replies that she feels the same way as she tugs on his hair mindlessly. They should take it slow, she also says. The weight of her is familiar by his side despite of the almost four years of absence – it is as if she never left and he never lost himself in the array of mess after DC.

He sighs and she curls herself a little bit more, eyes still trained at the marathon of _Lost_ —which he has to admit is probably one of the greatest tv series amongst the huge pile people keep tossing at him—but slowly slipping shut. He's half amused, because since she arrived two days ago she hasn't done anything much besides from sleeping and shoving online recipes at him, but he can tell that she's deeply exhausted. Either that, or she's really comfortable at the moment.

They are both lying on his couch, wrapped around each other in a way that is not entirely comfortable for either of them because the couch is too narrow, but they are unwilling to move. He nudges her anyway, "Natasha, you should move to the bedroom."

She makes a sound that he knows falls somewhere between _'I don't want to'_ and ' _go to hell'_. Most of the time both of them overlaps. He chuckles and buries his face in her hair. He has missed this. He has missed _her_. "The bed is more comfortable to sleep on," he tries again, a bit incoherent since his voice is muffled by her now shoulder-length curls.

"Shut up, Rogers," she replies, voice annoyed and groggy with sleep. "You talk too much."

Truthfully, as his arms go limp and the shadows of the room grow darker—he can't think of anywhere he'd rather be.

.

He sets up the guest bedroom as hers, because he thinks she should have her own room since she had sold her apartment the second she decided to embark on her identity-finding journey, but she rolls her eyes at him instead. "It's not like I'm going to use it."

And maybe he flushes a bit at that. It's nothing new—them sharing a bed and her claiming half of his wardrobe. It's somehow different now, though. Now, when both of them have agreed what they have between them is… something (no, they have not yet worked it out that far) else, it feels different. More intimate, to some extent.

"Just humor me," he says, and maybe she can see how much it means to him—even when it's terribly stupid and something he doesn't want to admit to himself, the silly little voice convincing him that maybe if she has this, _she's never going to disappear again_ —because her eyes soften and she nods. He relaxes, not realizing he has been so tense.

She points at the white wall on the right side of the room, "That seems a bit depressing. Can't you at least hang something up?"

"Since when do you care about home decorations?" Although, yeah. He hasn't had many guests staying over since he moved to New York and usually it's just Sam so he doesn't pay that much attention to the details of this room. "I've been to your apartment. There was literally nothing there." It was depressing, really. He had thought his had been, but hers was nothing but a mere studio apartment with an admittedly nice couch, a simple coffee table, a bed pressed against the far corner of the room, and books scattered on the top of her dresser.

She shrugs. "Never needed one before."

He rubs the back of his neck absentmindedly and frowns. The room does look a little barren compared to the rest of his apartment, which is full with art supplies he still has to find an alternative place for, what with the cat running around (though he limps a bit, and Natasha says he has always been like that) sticking his paws to everything. "I suppose I can take you to my friend's studio, he's in my photography class and he takes really good pictures. You'll probably find something you like and we can hang it here."

She looks at him with interest. "Now that's something else," she says, smirking. "How does it feel to hang out with people almost seventy years younger than you?"

"Terrible," he deadpans. "They don't seem to get the concept that I need more nap than they do."

She snorts then steps closer to wrap her arms around his waist. He has almost forgotten how short she is compared to him—and obligingly rests his chin on the top of her head, circles his arms around her. "As much as the concept of meeting your _friends_ entertains me, I want you to paint me something instead."

He laughs. Then stops when he realizes she's serious. "Wait—you mean that?"

She peers at him, eyebrows raised. "Why would I joke about that?"

"I just –" He stops. Can't continue. He doesn't know why.

"I met the Queen of England," she says, out of the blue. The worst thing about Natasha Romanoff is that you wouldn't be able to tell whether she's lying or not if she doesn't let you. That, and he is pretty sure the cat hates him and worships the ground she walks on. It's unfair.

"What?" He snorts at that, goes along with the obvious change of topic gratefully. "Did you have tea with her or something?"

The secretive smile she gives him honestly makes him wonder if she's telling the truth. " _Natasha_ ," he says again. He doesn't even begin to want to know.

"Tea and cookies, Steve," she says seriously. Yeah. He decides he would be better off not knowing some things and he tells her that. She laughs and pulls him down to kiss his cheek.

.

The cat stares at him. He stares back.

Natasha is taking a shower. They haven't named the cat yet. Mainly because his shortage of good ideas and Natasha keeps persisting to name him _Simba_ despite of her earlier statement that he should pick the name, and he has a feeling that's the name they're going to choose anyway (who is he to deny her when she accompanies her suggestion with this totally threatening smile every time?).

"Simba," he says, with a book in his hand.

Now that he gets a better look at the creature, he can see that the grey of the fur is mixed with brown and black and just a tinge of white. And he's probably crazy—he doesn't know, though that is one word that people close to him keep using to describe him, but Simba's stare seemingly turns from the slightest bit of curious to definitely unimpressed.

The cat is stretched out on an armchair (he hasn't moved for hours, and seemingly has claimed the spot as his own) by the window, and it's Steve's favorite chair because it's positioned just right near the window and he's being silly to get hung up over a chair, but he just wants to read in peace–

He takes a step closer to the chair, and the fat cat perks up and hisses at him in warning. Steve stops. Sighs. Yes. The cat definitely doesn't like him.

.

There are papers strewn about on the coffee table, because her Russian is obviously better than his broken one, and they spend the afternoon going over Intel about Bucky just in case Steve has missed something before. It makes him sick, as it always has, and he thinks she understands because she presses her leg against his and says nothing when he draws a shuddering breath.

"Do you think he'll ever –" He doesn't know what he wants to ask, but she cuts him off.

"No."

"Yeah," he says, quietly. And this is the only time he'll ever ask her this, because over the years he has gathered pieces about her past, but he's not delusional enough to think he'll get all of them and he's fine with that. "How did it feel?"

"Horrible. Probably the worst you can ever imagine. Sometimes you think you won't get through it," she states, not lightly, but automatically as if saying that it is what it is and it's the answer of someone who has make peace with the darkness of her past. She drops the file that she is holding on the table then she looks at him, green eyes piercing and nothing but understanding. "But it's not the end."

.

He watches as the cat curls up on Natasha's lap later, purring contently. He can't help but to wonder why Natasha chose the cat, even though he kinda thinks he does, by the way Simba meows in protest in an admittedly adorable way when she stops running her hand up and down his thick furs.

"Out of curiosity," Steve says. "Why did you choose him?"

"He's cute," Natasha answers, drily. Of course that's not the answer, since she never does anything randomly; he thinks it is ingrained in her to do everything with a purpose. Even her movements have this dance in them, efficiency and meaning. But he has also learned to read between the lines, with her.

He connects the dots easily. _Ah_. He didn't think he could love her more. He's wrong. The fat tabby was about to be put down. She couldn't let that happen. He loves her. He does. Steve stands up just so he can kneel in front of her, waving his fingers through her hair to pull her head closer to his. Her face is just millimetres apart from his and her eyes are half-lidded, mouth quirked into a smile. "Did I say something?"

"Stop ruining the moment," he says, because he knows she knows that he knows. Her smile widens.

.

With no mission call or any saving the world business, they spend three weeks in absolute bliss, not really renovating his apartment but they might as well be, what with her rearranging everything and dragging him around to buy new plates and curtains. Apparently she's taking having her own room really seriously, and he doesn't know what to do but to follow her whim and paint the room light yellow. She still doesn't use the room though, curling around him when she sleeps every night, keeps her stuffs in his closet as always. He doesn't really mind.

"What's the point of," he squints to read her small cursive handwriting. "Five more kitchen knives and three different kinds of scissors?" He didn't even know there is more than one type of a scissor.

"That's for fun," she says, and he resists the urge to sigh. She pokes at him so that he reaches up for a new waffle maker on the top shelf. He obliges. He's not protesting on that one.

"What about the lava lamp and the pinball machine?"

She stops, thinks. "You're right," she finally says. "Should we get a pacman machine instead?"

She puts the most hideous looking statue of a horse into the shopping cart, and he gives up questioning her entirely.

.

Remember when he said he understood why Natasha chose the cat by implying that maybe it was because the cat is sort-of adorable? Forget he ever did that.

He understands now, that any sort of tolerance Simba has managed to muster for him, that's just for when Natasha's around. It's as if there's an internal alarm of some sort in his body, because the second Natasha goes far enough, so does any pleasantries the cat has for him.

Case in point, it's a Tuesday morning and he has to stay home to finish an art project while she has an appointment with Pepper, and the door has just slammed shut when the previously friendly meowing creature turns to him and growls. See, he never does that whenever Natasha's there.

Then there's a point when he starts to wear socks inside the house, because apparently the cat finds amusement in attacking his feet with his claws whenever he can. Such is life.

"What are you saying?" She asks, amused as she walks around the house with the cat who's curled in her arms staring at him over her shoulder in a definitely smug kind of way. "Simba's nothing but pleasant."

He stares warily at the feline. "Yes," he says, because he swears the cat is grinning at him even when he knows he's crazy. "Definitely. Of course."

.

"I'm not telling you how to live your life," Clint says, from where he's standing on the top of the dining table. "But why, Cap? _Why_?"

"Clint," Steve says, apologetic from where he's peeking through the bedroom door. Simba is growling from underneath the table. Steve can say that he's honestly slightly pleased that he's not the only one the cat hates. Though he's starting to think the cat hates everyone but Natasha. "You do know that cats can jump that high, right?" As if on cue, Clint yelps, and then there's a lot of hissing and more pained yelping. Steve cringes.

Needless to say, the archer refuses to do any sort of meeting at Steve's place again. Steve makes it up with pizza.

.

"I'm heading out for a mission tomorrow, might be a few days," she says, and he stills. It's not an Avengers mission, because he would have also gotten the call.

"Oh," he says.

"Is it anything fun?" he says again.

He is not fooling anyone, because she rolls her eyes in exasperation. "Stop it," she reprimands. He knows she's still working with Fury, though he isn't really clear on what they're doing now that SHIELD is gone, but she told him they're just cleaning up - whatever that means. Hill and Clint are still in that too, obviously. "It's just standard stuffs. Nothing related to HYDRA."

He doesn't bother to correct her, doesn't tell her it's not that part of the sentence that bothered him. "I know," he says instead. "You would have told me if it's anything important."

"I would have," she agrees, because they're partners first and always, and they leave it at that.

Later that night though, as she trails her fingers across his collarbone and they're watching the yellowish streetlight from his bed, she says, "It's only for a few days." _That I won't ever leave again and you'll definitely be bored to death because of me - though I doubt it, since I'm probably the most exciting thing to ever happen to you, being frozen alive notwithstanding._

He startles a bit, then laughs and holds her just a bit tighter. He doesn't know why he even bothers trying to hide when she can read him as well as she knows the back of her hand. "Okay," he murmurs.

.

It wasn't like Natasha was with him all the time before, in fact she had her own agenda and he had his. But it feels different, when this time he knows he'll be coming home to an empty apartment when there's supposed to be someone else there by the end of the day.

Simba does his usual routine. Stares at Steve with an unimpressed look, demands to be fed by hitting his plate with his paw again and again, claims Steve's favorite chair, tries to land a scratch or two on his leg as he passes by, growls menacingly whenever Steve gets too close for his liking.

Steve thinks the cat is training him, for what, he isn't sure. But now he fills the cat's plate automatically whenever it's almost empty and avoids Simba's path on instinct. He won't put it past Natasha's cat to do that.

Steve does the routine of going out for a couple of missions, finishes his assignments, tries to see if there are any leads on Bucky, does laundry, attempts to figure out where to put the new things Natasha bought, and takes care of the cat. The days seem to pass a little longer for him and he rolls over in the mornings on reflex to see someone who isn't there.

"Isn't there a show on _National Geographic_? It's _My Cat from Hell_ —or something?" Sam says, as he patches the bullet graze on Steve's shoulders and sees the fading red marks on his arm from his unpleasant encounter with Natasha's (technically she bought him to be his, and then theirs, but Simba obviously is _hers_ ) cat earlier that morning.

"Your point?"

"You should totally sign up for that," Sam says. "I'm sure your cat qualifies."

"Natasha loves him," he says, maybe a bit mournfully, because he totally knows a lady who would love to get more cats, but Natasha does love him, talks to him whenever she thinks Steve is out of earshot, no matter that she calls him _fatty_ \- so there's that.

"Dude," Sam says, openly laughing at Steve's misery. What a great friend he is. "You are totally long gone."

.

He receives the call at three am, and he jumps out of the bed and doesn't even bother grabbing his coat for defense against the cold outside before he dashes through the front door and drives his car to the Stark ( _Avengers_?) tower.

Natasha is there, leg wrapped in a white cast and grinning sheepishly (might be the first time he sees her doing so) at him. "Hey," she says, and he frowns. "Got a little reckless."

"Fractured in two places," Clint chips in helpfully as he ignores Natasha's warning glare. "Nasty cracking sound. Nothing rest and some therapy wouldn't heal, but good luck dealing with her cranky self."

She must be a little drowsy with painkillers, because she doesn't protest when he wraps his arm around her to help her up although Clint is there watching them curiously. Despite everyone's common knowledge that they're involved, no one has ever seen the proof with their own eyes. She does protest when Steve asks about a wheelchair, so they agree on crutches never mind both Steve and Clint insist she's being ridiculous.

The second they arrive at his apartment, Simba is there with accusing eyes that seemingly ask about their whereabouts but gets over it quickly when he sees Natasha. The cat follows them to the bedroom and Natasha laughs when Steve almost steps on his tail because he wouldn't stop making circles around them. He helps her get on the bed and carefully lifts her legs, the one with the cast and the one without, making sure she's comfortable. He's fussing—though he knows she's fully capable on her own and has experienced worse injuries than this, but she lets him because she gets that he needs to and he's grateful for it.

Simba jumps on the bed and approaches Natasha, meowing loudly all the while.

"Ugly cat," Natasha sing-songs, scratching the back of Simba's ear. "Did you miss me?"

Steve watches her, can't help the soft smile spreading on his face. "Clint did make you high on painkillers, didn't he?"

She glares at him. "Don't patronize me, Rogers."

"I'm not patronizing you," he returns, still smiling. She chucks the tv remote at his head, misses, and obviously regrets it when her pride refuses to make her ask him to pick it back up. He makes her cream soup. If she watches _Keeping Up with the Kardashians_ in misery when there's a marathon of _Lord of the Rings_ on _HBO_ _–_ that's entirely her fault _._

Later on, when he finished washing the dirty dishes and putting her dirty clothes into the laundry basket, he returns to the room to find her already asleep and Simba watching him from where he's perched up near her feet. But the cat doesn't growl, not this time. Just watches him as he moves.

Steve thinks – _well, at least he has a common ground with the cat_. He tugs on the blanket, listens to Natasha breathe, and sleeps peacefully for the night.

.

He removes his hands from where they've been covering her eyes and shifts anxiously on his feet. "What do you think?"

She is surprised, and he can see that by the way she blinks. "You painted this?"

He grimaces. She doesn't like it. He knows he should have went along with painting the sunset of New York skyline instead – it would have fit nicely with the yellow of her room, but he wanted to paint this never mind there's a huge risk that she may not like it. Natasha—

Has an interesting taste that he can't even begin to describe and sometimes admittedly can't even pretend to understand.

The painting is of an expanse of endless sky, shades of blue and the rolling of white clouds. He had been working on it by taking extra hours on campus, because he didn't want her to see it before it's done. He went on impulse and hung it on her bedroom wall earlier. He should have known better. "I can take it down if you want. We can still go to my friend's photography studio."

That's when she pinches his arm extra hard. He bits back a pained grunt and sees her glaring at him. " _What_ _the hell_ was that for?"

"I love it, you _dumbass_ ," she remarks. He rubs his arm, torn between being happy that she likes it and annoyed at her for pinching him. In the end his giddiness wins and he grins. "But why the sky?"

Oh, right. That. He can feel the heat creeping up his neck and he knows he is blushing because she raises her eyebrow and smirks at him. "What?" She asks, folding her arms in front of her chest. "Are you going to tell me a cheesy line that I remind you of the sky, Rogers?"

"The first time I saw you on the hellicarier," he says. "That's the exact sky when I first met you." Thank you to his photographic memory, but not to his stupid brain for opening his mouth. He shouldn't have said anything. _God_. She would have a field day making fun of him. Stupid, stupid, brain. It's just that _sometimes_ , he really wants to go take her out on a date, a long romantic _normal_ one, because she doesn't deserve any less – but she is Natasha Romanoff and he is Steve Rogers and that is not something they do.

He expected the snarky remarks. He didn't expect her to press her lips against his. He kisses her back.

"Thank you," she breathes, when she pulls away, cool hands cupping his face. His hands are on her hips and she is smiling. He thinks there is nothing he wouldn't do to keep her happy. "For everything." Leans up again to capture his lips. He runs his fingers through her curls, lets her consume his senses. Her voice is a quiet whisper, eyes sparkling and honest. _I've never had a home before._

And – _how can he not kiss her right then?_

.

 **End.**

.


End file.
